April Fools

by A. C. Mason

  My gaze settled on Melanie’s arm and the bracelet she wore. A miniature Eifel Tower, a blue and white Delft replica of a wooden shoe, and a small model of the Leaning Tower of Pisa were some of the charms dangling from a silver chain. I tried my best to sound calm.

  “What an interesting piece of jewelry,” I said. “I don’t believe I’ve ever seen you wearing it before today.”

  “Oh, I hardly ever put in on any more. I spotted it in my jewelry case this morning and decided to wear it. These are all souvenirs from our big tour of Europe in 2003. You know, the ladies-only trip…oh, I forgot, you didn’t go with us.” She lifted her arm closer for me to examine.

  I fingered through the pieces and my stomach did a flip. A windmill exactly like the charm I found at Steven’s house hung next to the Eifel Tower. “Where’s the windmill from?”

  “From Paris.” Her eyes gleamed as if remembering a special moment.

  “Paris?” I couldn’t imagine a windmill anywhere in Paris. The answer came to me in a flash.

  “The Moulin Rouge,” we both said at the same time. A red windmill was the logo of the famous French cabaret.

  She laughed. I pretended to laugh and mentally kicked myself for not thinking of this before. I continued to examine the windmill. Just as I suspected, there was a small disc attached. On one side the words Moulin Rouge were engraved and on the opposite face Melanie’s name.

  “Did everyone who participated in the tour purchase this one?” I asked.

  “Yes, we all decided to get them alike because we had such a great time at the cabaret. There are a number of other charms on here from other places we enjoyed.” She pointed out two or three other ones.

  I didn’t pay attention to the identity of them. Darn it, if I could have gotten my hands on that piece I would have the name of the woman. “What happens if you lose one of the charms? Can you get a replacement?”

  Melanie hesitated a moment. “Losing one would be awful. I doubt it could be replaced.”

  “Who went on this trip?”

  She frowned. “Why are you asking so many questions about the trip?”

  I waved my hand to suggest disinterest. “Oh, just curious. Sounds like I missed a great tour.”

  Melanie bought my act. “Oh you did. Let me see…Amanda, of course.” She paused to contemplate the names of other tour group members. “Mary Catherine came with us.” She named three other women from the former deb set. “I can’t remember who else, but it was a big group. If I think of other names I’ll let you know. Maybe I can locate some of my photos and show them to you.”

  “Good, I’d love to see them,” I said. “Would you like something to drink?”

  “Oh no,” she replied. “I just stopped in to see how you were doing after your ordeal.” She fluffed up her shoulder-length blond hair with her hands, then glanced at her watch. “Amanda and I are meeting shortly to go shopping. I guess I’d better be going.” She stood and slung her purse onto her shoulder.

  “I’m glad you came over. Come back anytime.” Yes, please do. I might find out some more interesting information. My ulterior motive made me cringe mentally. I must be a terrible person for thinking such a thing.

  When we reached the door, Melanie turned and hugged me. Her action left me bewildered. I stood in the doorway for a while and watched her drive away. The hug felt genuine, not like the embraces given out at the recent party. Was I completely off base to think she contributed in any way to Anne’s death? My mind spun with confusion. What else could she be privy to involving the clique other than a murder plot? One thing for certain, her husband Michael, John Durand, and Trey Williamson were all very happy about the prospect of my brother going to prison for the rest of his life—or being sentenced to death. The idea of jail chilled me.

  Thirteen

  “I told you not to let anyone in.” Jim spoke with a strained voice, and with overly meticulous care he laid the drug store bag down on the kitchen counter.

  I knew from experience, his exaggerated actions meant my noncompliance really upset him and he was trying not to show his displeasure.

  “What’s it going to take for you to pay attention to me? I’m going to be mad as hell if something happens to you!” His frustration with me showed in his face.

  “Nothing happened,” I insisted.

  “Maybe not this time, but next time might be different.”

  I ignored his negativity. “As it turns out, I got an important piece of information from my little visit with Melanie.”

  His continuing frown displayed the exasperation he felt with me. “What is it?”

  “Melanie had on a charm bracelet with a windmill charm just like the one I found.”

  His expression cautiously eased. “Where did she get the charm?”

  “It’s a souvenir from the Moulin Rouge in Paris,” I said, eyeing him with equal caution.

  “Go on,” he urged.

  “Back in 2003 a whole group of women went on a grand tour of Europe—ladies only, no husbands. She told me they had such a great time on the trip they all bought bracelets and charms alike as a mementos of the experience.”

  “So every woman who went on this trip could be considered a suspect.”

  “Definitely. Remember I said there was a second piece to the charm?”

  Jim nodded.

  “It has the name Moulin Rouge engraved on one side and on the other the woman’s name. If I could have gotten my hands on that little piece I’d have the name of the person who hit me.” It was my turn to feel frustration now. “An important piece of evidence literally slipped through my fingers.”

  “Did you find out who went on this trip?”

  “She told me several names. The usual suspects—Amanda Williamson, Mary Catherine Durand, and a few others she identified. There were more but she couldn’t think of them off hand. She offered to show me some of her photos from the trip”

  “That might prove interesting,” he said. “What else did you learn from her visit?”

  “Nothing else from her, but before she arrived I tuned in to one of those forensics shows on Court TV and learned about a very interesting device.”

  He smiled. “A voice altering device?”

  “How did you guess?” I felt slightly irritated, fearing the prospect of my theory being shot down. No pun intended.

  “I’ve been thinking along those lines for a day or two.” Jim tilted his head slightly to one side. “So what’s your take on such a device as it pertains to the calls made to you?”

  “A woman used it to make her voice sound like a man,” I replied, pleasantly surprised by his response.

  “An extremely plausible scenario,” he said. “Although I have to admit that until today, I believed the caller to be male, but he was someone known to you.”

  “Our woman burglar changed your mind?”

  He nodded. “Actually when you told me yesterday about the woman who showed up at Steven’s place with Greg St. Martin I started having my doubts.”

  “Are these devices readily available to the public?”

  “Oh, yes,” he said. “Especially over the internet. There are different grades of them too.”

  “I think the ones capable of gender voice changing must be the more expensive versions.”

  “You’re right,” he agreed. “The people involved here are financially able to afford the more expensive models.”

  Excitement stirred inside me. I don’t know what thrilled me the most—the clues revealed today or the way Jim and I had agreed on the results. “By the way, what were you discussing with Berthelot and Falcon when I brought Chuck and Linda to the house?”

  He shrugged. “We were going over possibilities about our burglary.”

  “That’s all?” I didn’t believe his answer to be the whole truth. “The three of you looked very serious.”

  “Isn’t being burglarized serious?”

  Now I knew he was hiding something. Any time he answers a question with another questi
on, he’s keeping information from me. “Jim, is there a new development in the case?”

  “Look, you’re recuperating from an attack. You don’t need to get upset.”

  “Let me be the judge of that. The fact you believe I’ll be upset makes me want to know all the more.”

  He uttered a loud sigh of exasperation. “Anne’s parents, the Sinclaires, are putting a lot of pressure on the DA to prosecute the case. They want Steven arrested.”

  “Even without the evidence?”

  “She’s their daughter and they want justice.”

  “So what happens now?”

  “When the detectives get their investigation completed, the DA will decide if there is enough evidence to charge your brother or another suspect. If so, then he’ll be arrested.”

  “What are Steven’s chances?”

  “It’s hard to say. The investigation isn’t complete yet. The chances will also depend a lot on whether Steven decides to give them a verifiable alibi.”

  “This news negates all the positive evidence uncovered today.”

  “Not necessarily,” Jim said trying his best to calm me. “Think positively. Falcon and Berthelot are still putting together all the evidence. They’re going to be talking to some other people who could be involved.”

  “Like who?” I asked.

  “I’m not giving out that information,” he said firmly. “I’ve already told you more than I should.”

  The roller coaster of emotions swinging from exhilaration about the newest clues to despair over this turn of events must have raised my blood pressure. I could feel the blood pulsing in my temples. My headache ratcheted up a notch. I closed my eyes in an attempt to dissolve the pain.

  “Hey,” Jim said. “You’d better take it easy.” He grabbed the bag containing my pain medication off the counter and walked into the kitchen.

  Returning with a glass of water he handed me a pill. “Here, take this and lie back and relax. We’ll talk later about Steven, our lady burglar, and her alleged connection to the two murders.”

  “You should have been a defense lawyer,” I said. “Alleged connection?”

  His lips curved in a ghost of a smile. “Everyone’s innocent until proven guilty.”

  “What about Steven? You didn’t give him the same consideration. And don’t tell me it’s a different situation.”

  “Touché,” he said. “You got me there. Now chill out before you pop those stitches.”

  I swallowed the pill and snuggled under the blanket.

  Jim headed to the kitchen but stopped and turned to me. “I meant to ask you,” he said, giving me a curious look. “Why do you have two cell phones in your purse?”

  Remembering the second phone, I had to laugh. “If you recall, last month I bought a new phone. The old one was supposed to be dropped off at one of the recycling places for used cell phones. I kept forgetting about the darn thing.”

  Jim smiled at me and continued toward the kitchen.

  “How about some of the Chinese food? I’ll heat it in the microwave,” he called over his shoulder.

  Reheated Chinese food didn’t really sound so great, but feeling hunger pangs again I agreed. After only three bites of Sesame Chicken and noodles, the pain pill kicked in. I ate a couple more mouthfuls before placing the plate on the coffee table.

  “Wow, I can hardly keep my eyes open,” I said.

  “Good, you need the rest.”

  “I’m getting tired of people telling me I need the rest,” I mumbled, lying back on the sofa. “I need to find some answers.”

  Seconds later I was asleep. On the way to oblivion, the idea of contacting a psychic crossed my mind again. At least some answers might be forthcoming. I had to find the real killer or else my brother would be going to prison for life or…sentenced to death.

  Fourteen

  I woke up the next morning with a plan to contact a psychic swirling around in my head. The idea might be crazy, but so far no other method came close to finding the truth. I kept mulling over the possibility. The longer I dwelled on it the more I leaned toward going through with the idea.

  Jim would be gone for most of the day, since he needed to work several more days before using his leftover leave time. He departed reluctantly stating he wasn’t comfortable leaving me alone under the circumstances. I persuaded him to go. Nothing would happen. He probably figured that if left to my own devices I would get into trouble.

  Recalling a television series on one of the cable networks airing forensic shows about psychics who helped the police to solve murders or locate missing persons, I decided to go for it. One or two items belonging to the victim were held or touched by the clairvoyant in order to gain insight into the murder or help locate the person in question. Sometimes photographs were used. Every one of those cases came to a successful conclusion, but I wondered how many others had not.

  Exactly how does one go about finding a psychic? Are they listed in the Yellow Pages? Maybe the internet could help me locate one in this area, preferably in New Orleans proper. I considered contacting an on-line writing friend who is a published author. Her protagonist is a psychic who confers with police. Naturally, her character is always largely responsible for solving the case, along with a handsome detective. I wondered if my friend consulted with a real clairvoyant to make her character more believable. No, she lived in another state so even if she did consult someone, her contact would likely be also. I needed a local person.

  I rushed upstairs to the bedroom and brought my laptop over to the bed. I’m more comfortable lounging on the sofa or bed to do my computer work instead of a desk. As soon as the machine booted, I Googled psychics and came up with quite a long list. The prophecy business must be booming these days. I decided to rely on the Yellow Pages instead.

  One name listed in the directory struck a chord with me. Taylor Evans didn’t sound much like a psychic’s name. Maybe I expected Madam Zola, or Sister Rose although there were a bunch of those types of names listed. I decided to give Taylor Evans a call.

  After setting up an appointment, I tried to gather my thoughts. Too bad the windmill charm had been turned over to the police. What else would be useful for a reading? The photograph of Anne and the three others at Mary Catherine’s Mardi Gras party seemed like a good choice. Two women who could be involved were pictured, plus Steven, the prime suspect of the police and the murder victim.

  I must have been insane to even consider talking to one of those scam artists. You know what they say, ‘desperate times call for desperate measures’, whoever they are.

  Armed with the photograph of four major players in this drama, I started on the drive to the outskirts of the French Quarter. The address listed for Taylor Evans was a side street off Esplanade. Finding a parking spot was always an adventure. In this area residents parked on the street. Hopefully one of them was at work. Of course, there’s a certain amount of luck involved in finding a spot, but you also have to be as alert and talented as a stunt driver to zip into an available space before someone else grabs it. Luck happened to be with me today. I managed to get a place only a short distance from the psychic’s home.

  The rows of quaint Victorian trimmed shotgun houses on this street looked like little white gingerbread houses. There I go again, acting like I lived in a fairy tale kingdom. Get back to reality and expect shot nerves after this visit. I located the right house and knocked.

  A young woman who looked to be in her late teens opened the door and greeted me with a pleasant smile.

  “I have an appointment for a reading,” I said. “Susan Foret?”

  “Yes, come in please.” She directed me to a small sitting area. “I’ll tell Taylor you’re here.” She tucked her long straight black hair behind her ears with her slender fingers, and disappeared down the hall.

  If the psychic’s name had surprised me, her appearance amazed me even more. Even though the clairvoyants on the television shows were average looking men and women, in New Orleans you never k
new what to expect. Madame Gypsy complete with turban, lots of jewelry, and a crystal ball, or a woman with pink hair, or even a Goth might be predictable but instead I encountered a rather attractive normal looking woman who appeared to be about five or six years older than my thirty-five years. A few gray strands salted her shoulder length chestnut hair. She dressed casually, wearing jeans and a turquoise blouse. I introduced myself to her.

  “Come on back to my office.” She led me to a room at the end of the hall.

  Again I felt a pang of nerves and wondered if coming here might be a mistake or at the very least, a waste of precious time. Too late to think about wrong choices now. We entered a well-organized and uncluttered office with bookshelves floor to ceiling on two walls. I took a quick scan of the rows of volumes which covered every imaginable subject all the way from astrology to meditation and reincarnation.

  “What kind of reading did you have in mind?” She directed me to sit in the chair across from her desk.

  Uncertain as to whether I should mention the word ‘murder’, I removed the photo from my purse and handed it to her. “I’d like to know what you can tell me about the people in this photo.”

  Ms. Evans lifted a brow. “In what context?”

  I hesitated again. This wasn’t working out.

  She smiled. “You’re skeptical of me, I’m sure. Let me explain about my gift.”

  “Okay,” I said, slightly embarrassed. “I’ve never dealt with psychic phenomena. How does it work?”

  “I’ve assisted police departments over the entire country, and this is how I explain it to them.” Ms Evans paused a moment and studied my face. She must be reading me.

  “I’m glad to know you’ve worked with law enforcement.”

  “The clues picked up from my impressions while holding items or touching photos are what I pass along to you. I can’t solve the crime.” She leaned back in her chair. “It is a crime you’re investigating, isn’t it?”